


If/Then

by Bread_Salt_Wine



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Caring Sam Winchester, Gen, Graphic Depictions of Illness, Hurt/Comfort, Nausea, Sick Dean Winchester, Sickfic, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-11
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-18 19:08:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29987478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bread_Salt_Wine/pseuds/Bread_Salt_Wine
Summary: When Dean comes down with a stomach bug, Sam is determined to take care of him, whether Dean likes it or not.
Comments: 7
Kudos: 18





	If/Then

**Author's Note:**

> My descriptions of Sam's and Dean's "vomiting styles" don't necessarily align with what has been portrayed in the show, but this is the way I've always felt it should be, haha.

It wasn't nausea; genuinely, he hadn't been -- and still wasn't, even now -- feeling ill. Therefore, Dean was taken aback when his stomach abruptly and forcefully clenched, its message equal parts forewarning and threat. In the milliseconds following, his mind scrambled to evaluate and translate: "Wait, what the... Does this actually mean what it feels li-" The next millisecond found Dean's mouth awash with saliva. Okay, understood. His legs carried him out of the bunker library and propelled him along the hallway in pursuit of the bathroom. While his mind tried to catch up and answer the "what's", "why's", and "how's" that the last four seconds had generated, his body employed the necessary urgency, lengthening and hastening Dean's strides down the hallway as his stomach vengefully twisted and his throat tightened. His salivary glands flooded his mouth anew to replace the initial influx of saliva that he had involuntary swallowed, and he was suddenly struck with the very unfamiliar fear that he might not actually make it to the bathroom in time. Even as his fist instinctively came to press firmly against his mouth, Dean noted that he still wasn't feeling nauseated; he didn't feel clammy, weak, dizzy, hot-cold, or any of the other sensations that should have been assaulting him. Gratefully crossing the threshold of the bathroom, he simultaneously dropped his hand from his mouth and his knees to the floor in front of the toilet. And he waited. For all the strange urgency of the last several seconds, the next several passed without event. Dean's stomach still felt tense, though, and his mouth too wet, so he consciously swallowed in an effort to gauge his status. A completely reflexive swallow immediately followed, this one tighter in his throat, as if his underreactive gag reflex might be lazily toying with the idea of getting involved. After another uneventful moment, Dean stood up with a hard sigh, partially testing his body's response, and partially feeling frustrated at the whole incident. He walked to the sink, looked in the mirror, and, finding his reflection without anything helpful to add, thought with a shrug, "Weird." While his legs carried him steadily back toward his point of origin, his mind very quietly tossed about some "what's", "why's", and "how's" for a little bit longer.  
+++  
"Hey, you want some?" Dean greeted Sam, looking up from the cheese he was grating with a grin.  
Sam returned the grin with a quick sniff and a glance around the kitchen. "Tacos, huh? Sure, sounds good."  
Nodding toward the other ingredients, Dean replied, "Good, everything's ready, go ahead," as he finished with the cheese.  
The brothers were both sitting at the kitchen table, tacos and beer in front of them, in short order. They dug in, the sound of crunching briefly filling the otherwise quiet space, and Dean reached for his beer two-thrids of the way through his taco. As Dean raised the bottle to his lips, Sam swallowed the last of his first taco and picked up his second, pausing to tell Dean, "These are great! Thanks," before taking an enthusiastic bite.  
Dean's stomach gave a small twinge as he swallowed his drink, but he barely noted it as he grinned into his next bite and replied, "No problem."  
Suddenly, that bite felt like one of the bigger mistakes he had made in his life; his throat felt too tight -- too short -- to ever swallow it, even with the extra saliva rapidly accumulating in his mouth. Mind instantly darting to his experience earlier in the day, Dean had two simultaneous, opposing thoughts -- "It's nothing, just like last time. Just swallow; you'll be fine," and, "Bathroom. NOW! Do NOT humiliate yourself by puking in front of Sam!" Whether motivated by thought or reflex, Dean wasn't sure, but he was both swallowing and standing up in an instant. He was within arm's reach of the kitchen garbage bin a heartbeat later, and -- bathroom no longer an option -- he was bent over it with the next, vomiting undigested taco forcefully and painfully over the garbage.  
It had happened so swiftly and, moreso, unexpectedly that Sam didn't realize or process what was occurring just steps away from him until Dean heaved into the bin a second time. Dropping his half-taco onto his plate, Sam practically leapt to Dean's side, his own stomach instantly tense with concern; Dean was one of those people who vomited very rarely, and almost never easily or suddenly.  
"Woah! Dean! Hey! You okay?" Sam exclaimed, one hand landing solidly between his brother's shoulder blades just as Dean was sick yet again, muscles contracting and back arching against Sam's palm. Raising his free hand to cover his nose and mouth, Sam looked away and choked down a gag of his own.  
As more vomit poured thickly from his mouth, Dean grabbed the rim on either side of the garbage can, allowing it to support some of his weight until he was finally released to gasp for air. That was when the nausea that had been absent hours ago and, again, just moments ago assailed him. He trembled violently; his face and the back of his neck prickled with thousands of individual pinpoints of sweat; and his muscles felt more like gelatinous globs than skeletal support as a clammy dizziness washed through him. Aware of Sam's left hand on his back and Sam's presence to his right, Dean managed a nausea-slurred, "S'rry, S'mmy.... I'm 'kay."  
"Yeah, obviously," Sam huffed, mild annoyance at Dean's statement and abounding alarm for his wellbeing forming an edge around his tone. Beneath his hand, Sam felt Dean's breath hitch and muscles tense half a second before he retched emptily. Despite the action being powerful enough to pull Dean's body further downward over the trash bin, the only sound in the kitchen was Sam's voice saying, "Woah, I gotcha," as he changed his position to help support Dean's weight; Dean had never been one to vomit vocally, and Sam had envied him that on more than one occasion. Another longer retch was ripped from him, eventually producing a thin stream of bile and a strangled gurgle. Dean inhaled almost frantically, swallowed hard, struggled for another breath, and swallowed desperately twice more; however, the control he sought over his body was denied him. Heaving repeatedly, Dean felt the blood throbbing in ears, the ache burning through his lungs, and the tears running down his face. As his knees began to succumb to gravity's tireless demands upon a body in tumult, Dean also felt gratitude when his brother kept him upright.  
Without lessening his hold on Dean, Sam reached for a roll of paper towels and tore off a section when Dean finally drew several halting breaths. Shakily, Dean grasped the proffered square, wiping his mouth and blowing his nose with it before dropping it onto the mess beneath him. He wiped the sweat from his brow and the tears from his cheeks with his shirt sleeve, but still made no move to release his grip on the garbage can or straighten his stance. Not wanting to rush him, Sam waited silently.  
After another moment, Dean deemed it safe to step away from the bin, or, at least, safer than remaining in such close proximity to the smell and sight of his own vomit. Once he was seated on a chair, the embarrassment he had been too sick to feel before made its entrance; save a roadside incident or two, he wasn't used to anyone else even knowing if he vomited, much less having an up-close-and-personal audience/caretaker while throwing up, and certainly not as the result of having failed to get to the bathroom in time. Dean tried to quell some of his mortification by reminding himself that Sam had frequently been in Dean's position, and Dean had certainly never thought any less of Sam for it; vomiting is a largely involuntary but entirely normal physical function, just as is sneezing or coughing or yawning, and there was no reason Dean should feel any more self conscious about what had just transpired than he would a sneezing fit. Nonetheless, heat blossomed across his cheeks and inched down his neck when Sam crouched in front him with a probing gaze.  
Noting Dean's flushed skin, Sam lifted a hand to his forehead, surprised when Dean did nothing to thwart his making contact; he must be either too weak or too embarrassed bother, and Sam's money was on the latter. "Doesn't feel like you've got a fever," Sam said. "So... What happened?"  
A lack of understanding of his own body's actions and an abundance of humiliation joined forces to create Dean's reply -- a shrug, a thorough visual inspection of the floor to the right of his boots, and a quiet, "I dunno... I'm okay now, though. Sorry about... for, uh, getting sick... like that..."  
With a short, breathy chuckle, Sam tried to ease Dean's discomfort both for Dean's sake and for the sake of determining what they were dealing with. "Hey, you've been through it with me I don't even know how many times, no worries."  
"Yeah," Dean chuffed, not feeling any less embarrassed or any less compelled to study the floor. The fact that Sam knew that he felt embarrassed, however, gave rise to a sense of vulnerability that was intolerable enough to reactivate Dean's defense mechanisms; bravado with a pinch of nonchalance was the way out, giving him the strength to drag his gaze to meet Sam's, crack a lopsided smile, and pat Sam twice on the shoulder. "You're right about that. Guess I'd better get rid of that garbage bag."  
"I've got it," Sam replied, standing to remove the befouled bin liner. "When did you start feeling sick?"  
"About halfway through puking," Dean said, clarifying to Sam's furrowed brow, "It was weird -- I got the stomachache-mouth watering-swallowing part out of nowhere, but I didn't feel nauseous until I was pretty much just dry heaving. Everything was fine until it wasn't."  
"Huh.... And nothing else before this?" Sam asked, "You haven't felt 'off' at all, like you might be coming down with something? Even just a cold?" Ever the researcher, Sam needed details, and he was quite familiar with Dean's far-too-liberal definitions of words such as "fine" and "okay".  
"Nope," replied Dean, perhaps a bit too automatically. As if to compensate, he offered as proof, "Wouldn't have bothered to make dinner if I had felt bad." However, feeling somehow obligated by residual embarrassment to give Sam more information, Dean added, "But, the same kind of thing happened this morning, except I didn't throw up...."  
Sam was putting a fresh garbage bag into the can, and he looked up from the task at Dean's admission. "And no nausea?" Dean shook his head, and Sam was pleasantly surprised to sense that his brother was not withholding details. "So....?" No closer to ascertaining the cause of Dean's seemingly momentary illness, Sam let the word hang in the air.  
"Dunno, Sammy," Dean shrugged, rising from his seat. "Just a fluke."  
+++  
It wasn't a fluke. Dean had spent the last hour reading and feeling increasingly unwell while ignoring Sam's frequent, assessing glances from the other end of the long, wooden table, and now he was staring blankly at a page as his body flipped from too-warm to too-cold for the third time that hour while he teetered on the brink of nausea. Although willing to begrudgingly admit to himself at this point that the "fluke" was actually a stomach bug with a strange way of kicking things off, Dean was not at all ready to admit that fact to Sam; despite (or, perhaps because of) the dinner debacle and his younger brother's obvious continued concern, Dean needed to keep being "fine" as far as Sam knew. It was earlier than usual when Dean announced as casually as possible, "Think I'll call it a night, Sammy." Predictably, his statement was acknowledged by Sam's raised eyebrows, to which Dean responded, "I'm fine. Gonna grab a shower, maybe a long one," with what he hoped was a suggestive leer as he walked away. He was pleased with his shower explanation, as it would serve to make Sam uncomfortable enough not to check up on him and give him good reason to be in the bathroom for a while. When he knew he was out of Sam's line of sight, he picked up his pace toward said bathroom; he had fallen over the brink and into full-fledged nausea while he was making his brief getaway speech.  
+++  
Sam was almost sure he could hear Dean's footfalls quicken as they echoed down the hallway away from him. Shaking his head in mild dismay, Sam considered following Dean in a "rip the bandaid off" move; he had watched for an hour as Dean had seemed to become less and less fine, subtly adjusting his position as if he were either too hot or too cold, swallowing more frequently and, on a couple of occasions, audibly in the quiet room, and growing paler. Sam had also noted the perspiration dotting above Dean's upper lip and along his brow when he rose to leave, and the way his complexion had gone a bit greyish while he was making his shower excuse. Dean was not fine. Nor was potentially endangering himself by lying to Sam fine. Sam knew that Dean probably had nothing more than an ordinary stomach virus; he also knew that Winchesters and "ordinary" were barely passing acquaintances, and that ordinary could be inspired to the extraordinary under the right circumstances (which Dean seemed hardwired to create in situations such as this). While Dean would not be at all pleased to have Sam looking after him, Sam knew that dealing with Dean's reaction to the intrusion was absolutely better than finding Dean unconscious... or worse. Both brothers had made that kind of heart-stopping discovery of the other, and Sam saw no reason to tip-toe around Dean's pride and lies at the risk of this becoming a medical crisis.  
Mind made up, Sam still took his time getting to the bathroom, wishing there were some way to minimize Dean's embarrassment and discomfort over the situation. There was a surprising degree of inflexibility in many of their sibling rolls, especially those influenced by birth order. Covertly-formed rules such as, "If Sam is sick or injured, then Dean takes care of Sam," had been engraved into their early lives by circumstance and reinforced over time, remaining largely unexamined and unchanged thirty-odd years later; unfortunately, birth order had not only failed to create for Sam a reciprocal declaration, but had also built within Dean decades-old opposition to accepting Sam's assistance, especially where illness was concerned. As a result, Dean's presence was comforting to Sam whenever he was sick, but Sam's would be exactly the opposite to Dean.  
+++  
This -- this, in contrast to the prior manifestations of illness, was familiar to Dean -- feeling nauseated in that "gonna be sick any second now" way, but knowing his body almost never followed through quickly, if at all; wishing to just hurry up and puke while simultaneously not wanting to move at all because he might throw up; and waiting.... waiting to feel even a little better or to vomit or to die.  
Dean was on the floor in front of the toilet, legs folded beneath him. Draped along the back of the toilet seat, his right arm gave him a place to rest his forehead while he took shaky, measured breaths. Sweat had dampened patches of his undershirt, and he thought about removing the flannel shirt atop it. However, even unbuttoning it seemed too great a task under nausea's weight; in his current state, just spitting saliva into the water below every several seconds was taxing and soon abandoned in favor of letting his mouth hang open.  
A new swell of nausea dragged a shudder up through Dean's body, goosebumps rising along his flesh in its wake, and his stomach constricted in a deep churn that had saliva flowing out over his bottom lip in a continuous stream. Planting his left hand flat on the floor to ground himself as his heart rate increased and equilibrium faltered, Dean tried to regulate his breathing; he hated feeling out of control of his body and needed to focus on something.  
The thin whine of the bathroom door hinges startled Dean into yanking his head up from its resting place and turning toward the sound. Nausea striking a vengeful, retaliatory blow, he fervently wished the intruder were a pissed off monster come to kill him rather than a suspicious younger brother come to check on him. He only managed to glare at Sam for a second before a tug at the back of his throat paused his intended words, and a convulsive swallow stopped them altogether. Quickly, Dean was back to staring into the toilet bowl.  
"I knew it," stated Sam quietly without a trace of triumph. He wanted to go to Dean's side, to offer him whatever comfort and support he could, just as Dean always did for him; instead, he kept his distance for the moment, not wanting to make Dean any more uncomfortable than he already had just by being there.  
Dean's mouth was clamped firmly closed now, his breath coming in harsh, trembling pants through his nose that were interrupted frequently as he swallowed against his stomach's impending upheaval; it was going to happen -- he was going to throw up -- and, usually, Dean would accept that realization with some sense of relief after existing in nausea's special brand of hell. However, desperately wanting to be alone, he fought to delay it. Now that Sam was present, Dean found that the silence of the bathroom seemed to amplify his every labored breath and forced swallow, and even that was embarrassing. With his right elbow propped against the toilet seat, Dean pressed his forehead to his palm, fingers slotted through perspiration-soaked hair. The thought of opening his mouth to speak made his gag reflex perch heavily on the back of his tongue, but with no momentary respite in sight, Dean decided he had to try; he was going to be sick soon either way, and he would rather it happen as a result of trying to get rid of Sam than not. He swallowed hard twice, then, "Sammy-" Dean's breath hitched, "go-" and hitched again, gag reflex jumping. He swallowed. "-away," he managed, gagging softly on the end of the word as his stomach lurched. As a firmer gag followed, Dean gripped the sides of the toilet seat with clammy hands and leaned closer over the bowl. Sam obviously wasn't leaving, and Dean was out of time. Shaking uncontrollably, Dean got to take one more breath, and then his stomach was constricting violently, pushing its contents up his throat. He gagged so hard that involuntary tears already blurred his vision as he expelled the first stream of vomit, thin and watery, into the toilet. More immediately followed, thicker this time, and the sound of it plunging into the water made Dean feel even sicker. He tried to draw a breath, but retched a split second later, vomit rushing up his throat with such force that Dean felt the soft tissues retract painfully to accommodate the thick sludge that then exploded from his mouth with almost projectile intensity, coating the inside of the bowl with millions of splattered specks and pulling a punched-sounding groan from him. With tears streaming down his face, snot dripping from his nose, and sweat rolling down his back, he pawed at the toilet paper roll and gasped for air simultaneously. He managed a quick breath but not the toilet tissue before heaving up a smaller amount of sick and spitting its bitter remnants from his mouth with a weak, shuddering cough. When a strip of tissue appeared in his blurry line of sight, Dean remembered that Sam was in the bathroom with him.  
Watching Dean fail to work the toilet paper roll successfully had proven more than Sam's instinct to help could handle. As Dean accepted the tissue, Sam glanced down at the toilet and flushed it for Dean; if Sam's own gag reflex -- sympathetic though it might tend to be -- wanted to react to the smell and sight, Sam knew it certainly wouldn't help Dean regain any control. Before it had even finished swirling away, Sam heard Dean's breath hitch. A second hitch turned into an aborted gag that Dean swallowed, trying to catch another breath, and Sam saw Dean's shoulders lurch a second before he heard liquid hit liquid yet again. Wondering how much more Dean could have in his stomach, Sam looked down again at the toilet as Dean gagged and spat thin bile into it. Ready with another offering of toilet tissue, Sam held it out to Dean, who lifted a hand toward it, then paused, retching and returning his hand to grip the toilet seat. Nothing came up, but after a quick gasp, another dry heave ripped through him, and then another. Sam automatically crouched next to his older brother as he struggled, body shaking so hard with the strain that Sam worried what might happen if this continued much longer. His hand finding Dean's back of its own volition, Sam soothed, "You're alright, Dean, it's nearly over," with more confidence than he felt. One more weak retch ended in a cough and a moan that tugged at Sam's heart, but Dean was then released to gasp for breath after trembling breath.  
"You ok?" asked Sam after a moment.  
"Great," Dean replied, but the sarcastic edge to his tone didn't translate, overridden by breathy hoarseness. Cringing a bit at the weak sound of his voice, Dean cleared his throat and started to stand up, shrugging Sam away as he tried to help. "I'm good," Dean said more roughly and defensively this time. "What are you even doing in here?"  
"You're sick," stated Sam simply.  
"I'm fine-"  
"This-" Sam interjected, gesturing to the remaining vomit in the toilet, "-this is not 'fine', Dean."  
From where he was now standing, propped against the sink, Dean saw the gesture peripherally, but couldn't look, swallowing hard at the thought alone. He turned the sink on as Sam flushed the toilet. Taking a minute to splash his face and rinse his mouth, Dean wasn't quite sure what to do with the situation; he was embarrassed that Sam had now seen him throw up twice in about as many hours, irritated that Sam had denied him the privacy he could -- should -- have had this time, and angry at his own weakness and lack of control during both incidents. Rationally, Dean knew that Sam puking his guts up twice wouldn't pass for "fine" in Dean's book, so Sam was right to argue that point. Maybe if he acknowledged that to Sam, Sam would take the win and let Dean get back to puking and waiting to die in peace -- alone on the bathroom floor, as God and stomach bugs intended it. As a chill passed through his body with a barely-suppressed shiver, Dean admitted, "Okay, Sam, not fine, but I will be. Just a bug, nothing I can't handle. Nothing we haven't handled before."  
"That's just it, though," Sam argued gently, not wanting to put Dean further on the defensive, "We handle it when I get sick, and I get better. You handle it when you get sick, and half the time, you get worse -- worse to the point that you can't function, and then I take care of you. Last time, that meant taking you to the hospital and a two-day stay," Sam finished pointedly.  
"That was a really nasty case of the actual flu," countered Dean, but the vehement fight that both brothers expected to hear in his tone was entirely missing; too cold and already feeling nausea creeping back over him, Dean realized he didn't have the energy to argue with Sam right now.  
"It still didn't have to get that bad," Sam replied.  
"You're right, Sammy. It won't this time -- I'll tell you if anything seems worse than it should be."  
Although Dean had stopped short of actually finishing with, "Now, get out," Sam still heard it and couldn't keep the corner of his mouth from crooking in amusement; agreeable, contrite, polite, and promising change, Dean had compiled some of his best negotiating moves into those two sentences. Sidestepping Dean's proposal for the moment, Sam offered, "You wanna lie down? Or try a shower? I can grab you some sweats -- might be more comfortable."  
Dean recognized the suggestions as ones he made whenever Sam was sick, and he also recognized that he hadn't won his bid for a return to normalcy. However, with his stomach churning in earnest again and heat prickling across his head and neck, Dean automatically honed his gaze on the toilet behind Sam and said simply, "Sweats."  
Sam could practically see Dean's nausea ramp up, but he went to gather a few things and Dean's sweats as agreed, not wanting to overwhelm him with attention; he simply wanted to keep Dean as healthy as he could in the midst of this attack on his system and, just maybe, help Dean to see that, "If Sam is sick or injured, then Dean takes care of Sam; and, if Dean is sick or injured, then Sam takes care of Dean."  
+++  
Suspended within nausea's cruel wasteland of threats and dark promises, Dean remembered with painful clarity why stomach bugs were, without question or exaggeration, the worst; there wasn't another physical misery he had known in all of his vast and varied experience that compared to this, and the only thing capable of making it more insufferable was having to go through the whole process over and over again until it had run its course. This. Sucked.  
As he rested his forehead against cool porcelain, unable to care that his face was touching a toilet seat if it meant delaying his spontaneous combustion, a tiny whimper caught in Dean's throat. He swallowed it along with saliva, breathed in, breathed out, and swallowed again. His stomach clenched and jumped, and his throat imitated the action. Lifting his head, Dean tightened his hold on the toilet as his stomach twisted sharply, inspiring perspiration to break anew at his hairline while tremors rippled through every muscle. Atop his Adam's apple settled the tense desire to gag. Desire wasn't enough, though, and as he mentally urged his body to hurry up and get it over with -- preferably before Sam returned -- Dean simultaneously found himself instinctively swallowing against the evolving sensation. With conscious effort, he denied his throat's compulsion, and as he made sure his head was squarely over the bowl, his mouth opened to free the collecting saliva. The desire to gag escalated so instantaneously that Dean didn't even feel the transition before he vomited foul, soupy liquid that twice forced its exit through his nose in addition to his mouth. Choking on the bitterness and the burn, Dean fumbled for toilet tissue even as another heave took hold of his body and more vomit surged up his throat. A distinctive "splat" followed, instantly coloring his pale cheeks in humiliation as he found he had thrown up on the toilet seat and floor beside it. However, further emotional response was waylaid when Dean retched so deeply that his toes curled with the effort, and still within its empty throes, he felt his stomach contract again. If he had been clinging to any illusion of control, it was wrenched from him with the next heave; pain blossomed in Dean's muscles, contorted both in obedience and resistance to his body's tyranny, and he realized that he was wholly at the mercy of his own body in a way unlike he had ever been. As retching heaves crashed through Dean like endless ocean waves, a sea of involuntary tears reduced his vision to waterlogged impressions of shapeless light. Dean felt himself sway beneath that tide until clearly-defined spots swam into view and punched fear through him; not a stranger to being choked when hunts didn't go as smoothly as planned, Dean recognized his impending loss of consciousness. Between his skills and Sam's, he always trusted he would escape whatever got a hold of him out there in the world, but here in their bathroom, the entity strangling him was his own body. Dean found himself wishing as his mind and vision greyed that Sam hadn't given him his privacy, although even Sam couldn't have stopped the unceasing, tortuous retching overpowering him.  
+++  
Sam knew that sound as surely as he knew the Impala's roar; that sound was Dean desperately sucking in a lungful of oxygen after having been without far too long. That sound was also entirely misplaced outside of a hunt. Nonetheless, still a few steps away from the bathroom door, Sam heard exactly that coming from inside the bathroom, and his heart skipped a beat. Bursting into the bathroom, Sam's eyes automatically made a sweep of the room even as it became evident that the only monsters present were the microscopic ones making Dean so violently ill. As he took in the scene before him, Sam felt momentarily uncertain, as though he were completing one of those nightmarish dreams in which one (Dean, in this case) is discovered in an utterly humiliating situation by the one person they want most in the world never to see them that way (enter, Sam); on the floor beside the toilet was a puddle of sick, above which the toilet seat had also obviously fallen victim, and Dean was tentatively held up from the floor on the other side of the toilet by one elbow, breathing ragged, skin milky-grey, stubble and shirt dribbled with vomit. Sam had never seen his older brother in such a state. Truthfully, it was alarming. Catching Dean's eye, Sam saw residual hints of panic fade beneath relief at his presence, then a flicker of uncertainty, before inevitable shame dimmed some -- but not all, Sam noted -- of the relief. No longer interested in his own feelings, Sam crossed the room and crouched next to Dean. "Hey, you gonna make it?" Sam asked, mild teasing purposefully laced through heavier concern.  
Still breathless, Dean nodded wordlessly.  
"Wanna sit up?"  
Nodding again, Dean didn't know whether he really did want to, but he knew he was too uncomfortable to stay as he was; everything from his bones to his pride ached.  
With combined effort, Dean was soon sitting, back resting against a wall and exhaustion setting in. The flush of the toilet made Dean startle, and he realized he had nodded off. He jumped in surprise again when a wet cloth wiped across his brow and down his face until it scrubbed at his chin, finally prompting Dean to pry open his heavy eyelids. As Sam's face came into focus very near his own, Dean's fatigue-fuzzy brain eventually concluded that Sam was cleaning remnants of vomit from his chin, and Dean's pride scrounged the energy for him to reach for the cloth. Rather than relinquish it, Sam said, "Hey, you're good, I got it all. Let's get you changed. Unless you want to shower first?"  
Dean tried to answer, but managed only a sandpaper whisper.  
"Here," offered Sam, rising to exchange the washrag for a cup of water sitting on the edge of the sink.  
After a moment's hesitation, Dean accepted the cup and sipped, grateful to soothe his throat's pain but fearful to incur his stomach's wrath. "No shower," he finally replied, adding as he handed back the cup, "Thanks, Sammy."   
"No problem," Sam answered easily, because it really wasn't; helping his sick brother from the start was absolutely preferable to putting up with Dean's denial until he was so sick that he could no longer deny it or, too often, even take adequate care of himself. Sam stuck his arm out to help Dean up, and instead of pushing it out of the way as Sam had anticipated, Dean grasped it and pulled himself off the floor, a soft moan escaping him as his entire body unanimously protested his decision. The floor tilted sharply under Dean's feet as soon as he was standing, and Sam held him securely as he watched Dean's complexion transition from milky-grey to paste-white, head drooping. Unable to discern nausea from dizziness as he watched Dean cycle through several slow, deep breaths, Sam was just about to ask when Dean lifted his head and muttered, "Sorry -- dizzy. Just need to splash my face."  
They made the few steps to the sink with Dean mostly supporting himself, so when Dean shifted his weight from Sam to the sink, Sam suggested, "Let me help get your shirt off first. I brought you a fresh one you can put on after."  
"Yeah," Dean agreed, moving to unbutton his flannel and finding the task already completed. More relieved than anyone should ever rightfully be over such a tiny thing, Dean gave a small smile and glanced down to pull the shirt from his body. His smile vanished; down the front of his shirt were streaks of drying sick.  
Following Dean's gaze, Sam quickly interrupted Dean's obvious train of thought. "It's just a shirt, Dean -- easy to clean, easy to throw out, no big deal."  
Since continuing to stare would undo neither the damage to his shirt nor to his pride, Dean proceeded to carefully remove the garment. Logic knew Sam's words to be true, but emotion still got its say, touting the shirt as just one more piece of evidence that Dean was weak, telling him that a man takes control and doesn't need to be taken care of, taunting him for letting -- maybe even wanting -- his little brother to look after him. As he brought cool water to his too-warm face, Dean wished self loathing and vulnerability could be so simply rinsed away. He wished it again, adding "guilt" and "humiliation" to the list when, sans Sammy, he changed into sweatpants and stood at the toilet to pee, truly remembering only then the magnitude of the putrid mess he had made there earlier. No trace of it remained, and the fact that Sam had obviously, without complaint or mention, cleaned up after him set Dean's face aflame with mortification. Only the knowledge that Sam was waiting in the hallway "just in case" -- and would be in to check on him if he didn't come out soon -- kept Dean from devoting the rest of his days to staying there in that bathroom, in that exact spot, hoping to be summarily consumed by the fire that now burned atop his cheeks and along his ears. As it was, Dean waited as long as he dared before resignedly crossing the room and opening the door, face still flushed.  
At the creak of hinges, Sam looked up from his phone to find Dean in the doorway, successfully clad in dark grey sweatpants and a clean, white tee. "How ya holdin' up? Ready to lie down on the couch, maybe put on a movie?"  
Dean, Sam realized, didn't quite make eye contact as he nodded distantly, but Sam wasn't left to wonder about the body language long.  
"Sam," Dean said, "just because you think I volunteered to host a 'Germs Gone Wild' party once or twice doesn't mean I can't take care of myself."  
Not really surprised by Dean's slightly snarky reassertion of self sufficiency, Sam allowed his eyebrows to rise a tad indignantly nonetheless.  
"And clean up after myself," Dean added quietly, face turning pinker as his gaze fell to the floor.  
"Hey," Sam replied kindly, "I know, but the point is that you don't have to."


End file.
